


mindless

by symmetrophobic



Category: GOT7
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, M/M, all markson, basically a bunch of cute and not so cute stuff bundled together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 09:53:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7217749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/symmetrophobic/pseuds/symmetrophobic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a sunny garden for all atrophy-inducing, self indulgent markson prompts and plot bunnies that happen to demand my attention until i cave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. chocolate

_I think you’re sweet._

_Yeah. Bitter sometimes, but mostly sweet. Not the gross kinda sweetness that sticks to the roof of your mouth and makes you wanna puke- sweet like chocolate, kind of._

_I never know which side of you’s about to rear its ~~gorgeous~~ head next, like someone wears down enough of you and your heart comes out, or something. I don’t know how to say it. There’s something inside of you we can’t see from the outside, like you know, those dark chocolate things, one ball of it over that sweet grainy white stuff- marzipan, or whatever. Someone bites into you and they get a lot more than what they were asking for. And I don’t know, I guess it’s nice. I like it. I mean, I like marzipan. You know what? Whatever. Moving on._

_And you’re sort of unpredictable, yeah. I don’t know. Maybe. Like people think you’re just some cute face that’s good at dancing but I see you with your siblings and your parents and the way you treat your friends and I don’t know. It’s different. The nice kinda different. Like a box of chocolates, or something- damn it, this poetic shit is hard, uh, like you know, those kinds of boxes with a gazillion different flavours that’ll give you an allergic reaction if you aren’t careful because there’s all kinds of shit in there. Not that I’m saying you’re going to give anyone an allergic reaction, I mean, ~~the only reaction you’ve given me so far is~~ \- okay whatever, yeah. So. Uh. I don’t know which side of you I like best. So I kind of just want everything. All of you._

_I like you._

_So here. Have this. I didn’t make it, I didn’t want to poison you- you know what? Whatever. You can throw it away or give it to someone else. Or-…or maybe you could eat it. And maybe- if you wanted to, yeah, uh, maybe-…you could like me too._

_Yeah._

 

Mark lowers the worn piece of paper, then, grinning, and Jackson crumples dramatically in Jaebum’s steel grip. There’s a grand total of about 0.87 moments of silence before Bambam breaks into his usual high-pitched hyena shriek laughter from on the couch, soon joined by Youngjae and Yugyeom.

Jackson’s pinning the maknae line with ferocious stares but Jinyoung’s pretending to retch behind the couch, and Jaebum looks torn between laughing and puking.

“I can’t _believe_ ,” Jackson wails, and Mark finally starts to laugh too. “You _kept_ that. _Why._ I thought you _loved_ me.”

“That was the _worst_ decision by far for a dare,” Jaebum rolls his eyes. “And I’m not even the one who _wrote_ that.”

“That is _so_ not helping,” Jackson complains.

“That thing needs to be framed,” Youngjae’s wheezing. “Put on a pedestal-…”

“…-in the _lit classroom_ ,” Yugyeom adds delightedly, still laughing. “Autographed by the Wild and Sexy _Jackson Wang-…”_

“And everyone needs to come and pay their respects every morning,” Bambam finishes, wiping imaginary tears from his eyes. “It’ll be _gorgeous_. There’ll be highlighting and we’ll read our favourite lines with reverence-…”

“You _brats_ ,” Jackson howls, and Jaebum holds him back easily, now looking more like he’s about to laugh.

“He’s got a point though,” Jinyoung’s regarding the paper in Mark’s hands with some form of superior disgust from where he’s perched primly on the couch, lips pinched into a tight line. “Why would you _keep that_ , my eyes would’ve blistered the first time I read through it.”

“That’s why it wasn’t for _you_ , you little-…”

Jackson’s interjecting angrily when Mark crosses the room in three strides, rolling his eyes good-naturedly, before leaning in to press a kiss on his lips, effectively silencing him.

This cues another rare 0.72 seconds of quiet, before Bambam explodes (again) this time with yells of _EWWW_ and _GHEIII_ and Jaebum backs off from Jackson so fast he stumbles back onto the couch beside Jinyoung, who’s making strangled noises.

“My eyes, you _heathen_ ,” the literature major snaps. “Don’t you know I have an _exam_ tomorrow-…”

“ _Get a room, get a room_ -…” Yugyeom and Bambam have started chanting, and Jaebum gives them both warning looks.

Mark’s smiling again when they separate, the wretched note still in his hand, worn with the marks of being folded and kept in his wallet for three years (and counting), and Jackson looks oddly grumpy and appeased at the same time.

“ _I_ liked it.”

“EWWWW-…” Bambam starts excitedly.

“ _Shush_ ,” Jackson snaps over his shoulder, still annoyed, and Jinyoung has leaned over to start taking labored breaths from the little decorative plant beside the couch in the common room they’re in. Jaebum’s scowling, casting worried looks over his shoulder in case someone comes in, and Youngjae’s laughing so hard he’s doubled over.

“Someone save me,” Jinyoung bemoans. “I don’t think I’m going to make it till tomorrow alive.”

“No one’s _asking_ you to stay alive.”

“If the two of you start making out, I swear I will-…”

“ _Make out, make out, make ou-…_ ”

“Alright, everyone’s going to bed,” Jaebum’s standing, scowling, making shooing motions. “Truth or Dare was a really bad idea for a bonding activity, we’re sticking to Monopoly next time-…”

“Are you kidding, hyung?” Youngjae whines. “It’s the best idea you’ve had all month!”

That shuts Jaebum up for a moment, and Jinyoung very conspicuously rolls his eyes while Yugyeom and Bambam snicker in their corner of the couch.

“He’s right,” Jinyoung stands anyway, stretching luxuriously before flicking an invisible speck of lint off his clothes. “It’s late. And I’ve got a test,” he turns to where Mark’s now got a hand around Jackson’s own, shooting them a pursed look. “Don’t have sex. You’ve got morning lessons.”

“EWWWW-…”

“I am going to _bed,_ ” Jackson declares darkly, ignoring Bambam’s delighted catcalls. “So done with all of you.”

“You guys aren’t seriously going to-…” Jaebum sends a worried look over at them, as Jackson stomps out of the room, while Mark chuckles.

“Nope, don’t you worry Jaebum,” the older boy winks, tugging on Jackson’s hand. “I’ll handle things.”

*

The corridor’s considerably quieter when the two of them leave for the dorms, shoulders bumping, footsteps echoing lazily in the tiny hallway.

“Are you mad?”

Jackson blanches purposefully, before looking over. “What do you think?”

“It was a dare,” Mark replies. “I would’ve chosen another one if you’d really been opposed to it-…”

“Jaebum was holding me back from lunging over and ripping that piece of crap to shreds, Mark, I don’t know how much more convincing you need that I’m _opposed to it_ ,” Jackson says grumpily. “Why’d you even keep that, anyway? It’s gross and dumb-…I was _seventeen_ , that was ages ago.”

“I need it,” Mark shrugs, like it’s nothing.

It’s this nonchalant attitude that really gets to Jackson sometimes, like Mark expects him to read his mind when the younger boy can’t even hear all of his own thoughts at once. Jackson huffs, deliberately setting a faster pace.

“What?” he asks impatiently. “What do you need it for?”

Mark stops in the middle of the corridor and laughs, then, much to Jackson’s irritation and curiosity, because how can anything be funny now, when he’s so angry?

“When you’re being stupid,” the older boy grins, finally, and Jackson sees the way his fingers flip open his wallet absently, thumb brushing against that wretched slip of paper tucked securely in its pockets. “I need it. To remind me you were once stupidly in love with me too.”

Jackson’s speechless for a moment- he’s so taken by that it’s making him pissed, so much he doesn’t know whether he wants to storm over and start yelling or kiss him.

“You’re an idiot,” he finally settles for announcing in the corridor, and Mark laughs softly, walking over to entwine their fingers once more, starting them on a slow pace down the rest of the way.

Jackson follows stumpily, sort of irritated and sort of contented and irritated that he’s feeling so contented and contented that he’s feeling irritated, and this manages to mess itself into a giant jigsaw of crap in his head until Mark speaks again.

“I love you.”

“ _Don’t_ play that card-…” Jackson’s shut up for the second time in many minutes as Mark leans in for another kiss, one that lasts longer this time. Their lips lock easily from months of practice, but Jackson’s still stiff, still annoyed, even with this ultimate act of penitence.

“I don’t care if you give me chocolates or poetry or garbage bags, Jackson,” Mark murmurs, once they separate, a hand sliding around the younger boy’s shoulders, holding him close. “I like you anyway. So stop acting like it _matters_ what you gave me three years ago or now or three years in the future, because I’m always going to be here. I’m always going to like you. I love you.”

A moment passes as Jackson wraps his mind around each and every word that’s just passed the other boy’s lips, feeling it sink in a lot deeper than it should, and in that few seconds it feels like he’s struggled back onto the plane of their relationship, except the light’s falling on things in a different perspective, throwing some things into comfortable focus, and erasing others. It feels reassuring. Calming.

He’s still mad. Maybe. Okay, or maybe not.  

“That was,” Jackson pulls Mark closer, finally at least a little sated. “Possibly worse than the note.”

“Oh, the note’s on another level, this is decent compared to The Note,” the older boy grins, now that the storm has passed and the all clear’s been sounded, and Jackson scoffs loudly.

“Keep talking and you’ll be sleeping in the corridor tonight,” he declares, walking them back down the corridor towards their room. It’s comfortably quiet, the quiet Jackson likes to have when he’s around the people he treasures, people like Mark. “Now I’m hungry, and it’s all your fault.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like some chocolate?”

“Shut _up_.”

 

 

a/n: so yes completely self indulgent and i'll work harder next time cries ;A; please don't flay me


	2. mathematical induction

Let the statement Pn be "We should date."

\- Determining if P1 is true:

RHS: "You are (fortunately) single."  
LHS: "I am (disappointingly) single."

Therefore RHS ≅ LHS for P1.

\- Assuming Pk is true for some value of k:

"You're strong. Kind. A little too enthusiastic for your own good. Possessing a tangible thirst for life and the will to make the most of it no matter what comes your way. Loud and powerful and a lot more bark than bite. A heart of gold like flesh and eyes like pitch stars. A whole on your own and a beacon of light in a world ridden with darkness.”

\- Determining if Pk => Pk+1 is true:

“I’m weak. Practical. So quiet I could deafen the best of people. Infected with an incurable distaste for life and everything it holds (except you). Silent and pliant and only surfacing from the cave I’ve dug in my head when I have to. Void of humanity and seemingly blind to the world. Infinitesimal when I try and invisible when I don’t, nothing but another drop of water in the sea that flows around you.”

Therefore Pk displays congruency w.r.t. Pk+1.

Hence, as P1 is true and Pk => Pk+1 is true, Pn is true for all values of n => in every circumstance regardless of external variables-…

Dinner tomorrow? Pick you at seven? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written in a fit of trying-to-study-but-markson-happened. yes. twas a great moment. not so great results.


	3. before this goes over the edge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning for a 180 degree change in style from the previous two chapters.

“Hey.”

Mark turns around, and Jackson’s relieved to see the remnant of a smile pulling itself, on frayed, broken puppet strings, on the other boy’s face. He’s hunched on the cement, lanky body folding in on itself- Bambam jokes that he becomes a travel-sized human like this, packaged neatly into a dark hoodie and old jeans and an eternity’s burden stitched onto his shoulders, crushing him down further so he becomes smaller, quieter, unwilling or unable to take the breath that’ll free him, Jackson has no idea.

So he stands behind him, in the narrow expanse of dust and dirt and nothing, wondering if that’s how Mark’s feeling right now. But Jackson has no idea- that’s something he knows, at least.

He inhales, a hundred conversation starters all bumbling through his head at once, lips parted as they rise up and silently die away simultaneously, until he fumbles with the plastic bag in his hands stiffly.

“Want some-…some food?” he chuckles weakly, offering the now slightly soggy paper cup up. A gust of wind blows over the two of them, making Jackson shiver. He’d picked it up on the way home as per Jaebum’s request, but then he’d done a round of their dorms and realised someone was missing, so of course, here he is. Jaebum can go hungry for one night.

“You sound prepared,” Mark rocks precariously, that puppet-string smile now hewing itself on his face with a hammer and chisel. Jackson thinks of scalpels and silver needles with invisible thread, then, peeling apart pale skin and bright eyes, and shivers again.

“I’m always prepared for you,” he laughs. His arm is beginning to ache from holding the cup up for so long. “You wanna-…maybe come down, and we could eat it together?”

The puppet string smile freezes- splinters like ice and marble, detaching from its owner as though by frostbite, and Jackson hastily backtracks when Mark turns away from him again. “Okay okay, then, uh, then I’ll-…I’ll come up. Don’t move,” he jokes weakly, setting the cup down, before placing both palms on the ledge gingerly.

He hefts his body up, grunting with the exertion as he flops over, swinging his legs cautiously, stomach twisting at the sensation of his feet dangling over nothing. Another breeze, dangerously innocent, dances through his frigid fingers and against his cheeks again, and he chances a glance down, before squeezing his eyes shut, tendrils of mild vertigo seizing him again.

“So,” he says, knuckles white with the way he’s holding onto the ledge. He swears there’s a tremor in his voice somewhere, but he can’t tell for sure- the blood pounding in his ears kind of overpowers everything else. “Fine night it is.”

“Fine,” Mark echoes. One knee is still gathered to his chest, body lax with perfect coordination, his chin tucked in, and in the shadow of his hoodie, the dark circles under his eyes look even more pronounced. Fluorescent strands of hair, orange and white in a mixture of street and moonlight, droop, rough and unstyled, down his forehead, just brushing his eyelashes- it’s funny, because Mark used to keep the shortest hair out of all of them. Even like this, he looks beautiful, emotion and silence and cold fingers locked precisely into a perfect portrait, an artist’s dream.

Maybe it’s just Jackson, then, who barely notices all that, instead tensing a little.

“You’re not wearing shoes,” he says, as another gust of wind tumbles along. “Your feet must be freezing- hang on…”

He wiggles off his own shoes, careful not to drop them over the edge of the building, before reaching out for Mark’s leg, relieved when the other boy doesn’t protest, just watching quietly. But then again Jackson knows this isn’t good news, because it means Mark’s past the point of fighting back, and that’s never a good thing. Still, he’d be a lousy excuse for a best friend if he didn’t know how to get him back, even at this stage.

Gently, he fits the old sneaker on Mark’s foot, pulling the laces a little tighter without bothering to see if it fits because he’s memorised Mark’s shoe size, all the way since he’d bought that pair of Nike high tops for him three years ago and got it two sizes off, and the other boy had laughed until he cried, saying the number over and over again until Jackson was quite sure he’d never forget it.

“What about you?”

Jackson almost topples backwards, clutching his chest to aid the shock, breathing deeply. He recovers quickly, though, wiggling his toes with a faint chuckle. “I’m-…I’m good, man, socks were made for a reason.”

“Great,” Mark’s examining the sneaker, mildly engaged. “My feet are going to stink now.”

“Yah,” Jackson breaks into a genuinely relieved smile. Jokes are usually a good sign. “As if you’re any better- I’ve had enough of your smelly training mat socks in our room, thanks.”

Mark doesn’t say anything after that, but the look in his eyes is more quiescent than empty, now- baby steps, Jackson reminds himself.

“So uh, want some?” Jackson quickly picks up the cup again, still testing the waters as he skewers a rice cake, praying his hands aren’t trembling as he holds it closer to Mark.

The other boy watches it for a contemplative second, before taking it, chewing slowly as Jackson withdraws the skewer.

“Who’d you buy this for?” he says, tongue absently flicking out to lick some sauce away from his lips, and Jackson’s momentarily distracted. “You hate spicy ddeokbokki.”

“Ah, right, that,” Jackson raises a finger, setting the cup down on the ledge beside them. “Not important. Jaebum can starve for a bit.”

Mark’s jaw slows to a stop in its chewing movements, his whole body like a machine creaking to a quiet, exhausted kind of death, and Jackson reaches out before he can help it, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his knee.

“Hey, what’s up?” he shimmies closer despite the height, hands squeezing Mark’s shoulder in what Jackson hopes is a reassuring way. “C’mon man, don’t blank out on me like this. Did something happen? Was it one of the guys? A staff member?”

Mark’s shoulders rise and fall in the slightest little sigh, splintered puppet limbs crumpling and uncrumpling in oxygen-tank breaths, and he leans over, head thudding against Jackson’s shoulder with a tired familiarity, like a lost ship finally docking at home.

“I’m tired.”

Jackson naturally moulds himself to fit, the depressions and swells in each part of him worn so often down into him that if someone looked at their shadows against the harsh streetlight, they wouldn’t be able to see where one ended or began.

“I’m here,” Jackson murmurs, because that’s all either of them need to know at times like these, and he’s played both parts enough to know this is how both of them want the story to end. He wraps an arm around Mark’s shoulders, like a bandage holding flesh in place, waiting for the bleeding to stop, and from the corner of his eyes he sees the other boy’s eyelids flutter shut.

He waits for an eternity like this, waits for Mark to take what he will, waits for the signal that’ll tell him things are okay again, and this will play out like every other time it’s played out (never to this severity, though), ending with both of them curled around each other in their room, quiet and safe and there.

“We’re doing it for a reason, right?” Mark asks so softly it might as well have been a whisper carried on the wind, but Jackson’s memorised the tunes of every sentence that leaves his lips, knows the ways they rise and fall like the back of his hand.

“Yeah,” he says, manoeuvring around the of course and the maybe he might have once been inclined to give. “We are.”

Mark relaxes, then, bones and muscles and tissues letting out quiet, crying breaths of their own against Jackson’s skin, and Jackson knows it’s time.

“So,” he says, after another particularly harsh gust of wind blows by, wincing and holding Mark tighter. “Maknaes said they had a surprise this morning. I think they bought a dress for Coco.”

A crook to the edge of tired, dry lips tells Jackson that they’re out of the woods.

“Youngjae’s probably going to lose his shit, he likes to be the only one spoiling her,” he continues, grinning slightly. “And you- you gonna let all your hard work disciplining Coco go to waste like this?”

“Those little shits,” Mark says, the hint of fondness in his voice reaching, unbeknownst to him, through layers of fabric and flesh and bone to touch the very bottom of Jackson’s heart. The younger boy finds Mark’s hand, pulling it away from its frozen perch on his knee to hold it close to his chest, grinning.

“Let’s go, before they overthrow Jaebum and Jinyoung and reign over us hyungs,” he swings his legs back over, tugging, and feels every bit of tension rush out of him when Mark hesitates first, before following, still wearing Jackson’s sneaker.

Their hands are still locked, and Jackson fumbles a little after Mark’s gotten down from the ledge, unsure of whether to pull it away or keep it there. But then Mark shifts his hand so their fingers entwine naturally, and Jackson smiles, grabbing the cup of ddeokbokki.

“How mad do you think Jaebum’ll get if he finds out we let his midnight snack get cold?”

“He can live with it,” Mark’s shoulder bumps into Jackson’s, contact warm even through two hoodies, and Jackson holds the roof access door open for the two of them, hoping he’ll never have to see it again. “Besides, he probably thinks he’s hot enough.”

Jackson cackles as the door swings shut behind them, and they start the descent down, feet cold but hearts warm.

 

Yugyeom is indeed brandishing a pink puppy tutu, Bambam jumping over sofa cushions and stacks of clothes to try to catch Coco, when they get back, and Youngjae clings to Mark, wailing that no one ever takes him seriously in this place.

No one asks why Mark’s soles are black, or why they’re both wearing only one shoe, and Jaebum grumbles about his cold ddeokbokki, but Jinyoung pulls them both in and closes the door behind them, steering them both towards the bathroom and complaining about how cold their hands are, and out of the corner of Jackson’s eye, he sees Mark smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's amazing how much i can write when i'm supposed to be studying \o/
> 
> so have an unbetaed, 2hr markson piece i wrote in a fit of emo angst and surprisingly fond emotions for mark \o/ hope you all like this sobs, comments will be cherished <333


	4. cuddles

Mark is a very excellent cuddle buddy.

According to Jackson, anyway.

Allow him to demonstrate the point- Jaebum has nice shoulders but always has somewhere to run, Jinyoung is soft and comfortable but argues with Jackson way too often and hence does not deserve the privilege, Youngjae moves _so much,_ and Bambam’s just a stick. And Yugyeom’s shoulders aren’t _too high_ up for Jackson, how dare you suggest such a thing- they’re just situated at a very uncomfortable height for Jackson’s head.

So by order of omission (and order of omission only!!), Mark is Jackson’s ideal ~~type~~ cuddle buddy.

Yes.

“Nope,” Jackson says, legs up against the wall, watching an upside down, dripping wet, towel-clad Mark pace their room grumpily. “Haven’t seen your shirt anywhere.”

“I swear, I put it on the mattress like, five seconds before I went in to shower,” Mark’s clearly pissed off, bending over to riffle through a pile of Jackson’s shit near his closet, and Jackson subtly attempts to cross his legs. In his position, it’s no mean feat, but being the great Wang™, he manages. “Why are your socks in my stuff?”

“The sock fairies,” Jackson says seriously. His phone is strategically poised in his hand so it looks like he’s scrolling through his twitter feed, but the screen’s long gone blank. Like his brain. “They get our socks mixed up every night.”

“Har har,” Mark mutters, groaning as he starts going through his drawer. It’s late, and they both should really be sleeping now, but Jackson’s focused on keeping a special part of his bed very visibly available to any prospective roommates who want to forgo their own mattress for a night later on. This is a ruse that usually works without the naked searching for clothes thing, by the way- but Jackson is nothing if not resourceful, even if he does say so himself.

Mark runs a hand through his wet hair, sprinkling drops everywhere, as he finally tugs out a gray ball of fabric from his closet. From Jackson’s angle (it’s the angle, he swears), he looks like a sculpted, crystal-shedding greek god. “ _There_ it is, shit I could’ve sworn I put it on the mattress-…? Ugh, whatever,” he tosses the wadded tank top onto the mattress, before tugging at the knot on the towel around his hips.

Then Jackson inhales a long, slow yoga breath, as the towel drops.

*

Contrary to popular opinion, Jackson does not often stoop to blatantly ogling his naked roommate after he showers.

He does it on hot summer afternoons too.

There’s a difference.

“Go away,” Mark mumbles as Jackson flops down beside him.

“It’s too hot to be alive,” the younger boy cries out, flapping as he’s pushed onto the floor. It’s considerably cooler, though, so he doesn’t complain. They’re both stripped down to boxer shorts (at least it hasn’t gone further than that, Jackson thinks), rolling around in their room, absorbing the limited air-conditioning their dorm can provide.

Yugyeom and Jaebum have long escaped to the practice rooms- at least there’s strong air-conditioning there, and Bambam’s taken advantage of their day off to go shopping with some of the female trainees. Jinyoung’s in the living room outside- they can hear the television, turned down low, a clear sign from the team’s mom to _give me some quiet reading time, or get your head bitten off_. Youngjae’s still snoring in the maknaes’ room.

Jackson attempts another claim on Mark’s mattress, and succeeds, this time. They lie there, tired and slightly sticky (because that sounds completely normal), bathing in the whir of their electronic fan.

“You know,” Jackson starts, slightly delirious. “You’re really nice to cuddle with.”

It takes Jackson about a minute to understand what he’s said, and he blinks, looking over at Mark, who’s long given up on trying to scroll through his twitter feed when Jackson’s around, to see the other boy going through the usual stages of tired what-the-heckery he goes through every time Jackson opens his mouth to speak.

“Bro,” Jackson adds politely.

There’s another silence, before Mark yawns, and after a moment, replies.

“I know.”

It takes Jackson an hour-long nap, two nice cool showers and a disappointingly meagre dinner to realise Mark just quoted Star Wars on him.

Which is blasphemy, by the way.

Because Lord of the Rings is the shit. Trust Mark’s small American mind not to comprehend such comparative greatness.

*

The van is a place of sanctuary.

Quiet, peaceful personal space where no one’s shouting at you to _go there_ or _say this_ , and Jackson takes full advantage of their Van Time.

Which goes pretty darn well until he starts awake on Mark’s shoulder, looking around blearily in the semi-darkness for the source of his non-slumber.

“You’re drooling,” Mark says matter-of-factly. Behind them in the van, Bambam makes retching motions into Youngjae’s lap.

“Egh,” Jackson apologises, grabbing a tissue to wipe Mark’s shoulder, before scrubbing at his cheek. His neck is _aching_ \- they so need to bring down one of those neck pillows the fans keep giving. “Are we there yet?”

“Another twenty minutes,” Jaebum half-snaps. He’d clearly had to say that to the others (probably the maknaes) several times already. Jackson sticks his tongue out at him, and almost gets it chopped off.

A minute later, though, the younger boy is back to snuggling Mark into the seat, eyes shut, drifting off into dreamland, when Mark shakes him awake exasperatedly.

“Stop, you’re just going to start drooling again,” he sighs. “Can’t you sleep on Jinyoung?”

Jackson turns a good forty-five degrees to sideeye Jinyoung, who gives him a look daring him to try. He shrinks back into Mark slightly.

“Nah, I’m good,” he says, pulling Mark’s arm over to use as a throw pillow, before yawning and settling in again. “Wake me when we’re there.”

Mark rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything else.

*

They’re both sick. For the first time, too- it’s pretty amazing, considering the general mess they live in all the time, and the extent both of them are willing to go to find food, even if it means buying dubious looking rice cakes off some shady street stall.

Which is probably the reason why Mark’s sniffing in his blanket burrito, apparently too sick to even take his laptop out to watch funny cat videos, which means he’s probably _really_ sick.

“Move,” Jackson rasps, crawling into the bed with Mark, and the other boy makes a half-annoyed, totally exhausted noise. He wriggles into the blanket with Mark, who hisses at the cold toes against his calves.

Mark’s chest is warm, fingers and feet freezing, and Jackson cocoons himself messily in the blanket, wrapping an arm around the other boy, nuzzling a nose into the nape of his neck.

There’s no complaining, no snarky comments, no movement except for the gentle rise and fall of their chests in tandem as they breathe.

Jackson exhales, sniffing wetly, before burrowing his face between the pillow and Mark’s neck.

“Don’t get snot on the pillow,” Mark says sleepily.

“I love you too,” the other boy replies in a yawn, before promptly falling asleep.

*

(+1)

When Mark gets back into the living room, Jackson has claimed the couch, two cushions and has a foot on the coffee table, freshly showered hair staining patches into the fabric. It’s cold inside and freezing outside, which pretty much explains the mass of blankets Jackson has dragged over to the sofa.

“We need a new couch,” he suggests, pushing Jackson’s legs off the cushion so he can take a seat, and the younger man makes a vague, non-committal sound, before turning and draping his legs over Mark’s lap.

“Nah,” Jackson yawns, dragging one of the blankets down from over the sofa to wrap himself into, and Mark rolls his eyes, sipping from his mug of lemon tea and turning his attention to whatever’s on television right now.

There’s another long silence (a rare sound indeed, when Jackson’s concerned) before Jackson turns again, absently attempting to knee Mark in the crotch, the other man responding automatically by calmly shoving both legs off him onto the floor. The body belonging to those two legs quickly follows, and Jackson splutters awake indignantly, sprawled on the rug.

On the couch, and hence in a higher position of power, Mark peers owlishly down at him over the rim of his mug.

“I’m breaking up with you,” Jackson threatens, grumpily clambering back onto the couch, and Mark snorts.

“Great,” he prods the lemon in his tea with a spoon. “I can stop worrying about saliva marks on my outfits when we’re travelling.”

Jackson gapes. “You _wouldn’t_.”

Mark takes a long, measured sip from his mug.

“You suck,” Jackson accuses, flopping back onto the couch anyway, his head on Mark’s lap this time.

“I don’t hear you complaining,” Mark comments. Jackson chokes on air.

When the general hacking and gasps for breath have subsided, Mark pets Jackson’s hair, now getting wet marks all over his basketball shorts.

“You are,” Jackson complains, making himself comfortable. “A terrible boyfriend.”

“Uh huh,” Mark says, looking at the television, now- a sappy female actress is wailing over the apparent infidelity of her hot hunky newlywed husband.

Jackson follows his eyes, and soon they’re both intently watching the drama, only stopping when a commercial break comes on about a brand new dishwashing soap the actress is endorsing. Mark sniffs.

They look at each other for a moment, and a potential ribbing hangs in the air, before Jackson sneezes into his blanket.

“Want some hot chocolate with marshmallows?” Mark suggests, then, and Jackson brightens up considerably.

(They spend the rest of the evening swathed in blankets and sipping from cream mugs, munching on cookies and criticising drama tropes.

Jaebum comes home with Jinyoung later that night to see both of them burrowed into the covers together, fast asleep, cookie crumbs everywhere and empty mugs on the coffee table.

He wrinkles his nose at the mess while Bambam sneaks out from his room to snap compromising pictures that would later serve as the much needed blackmail for various meat-related outings.

“Irresponsible idiots, acting like this out here in the living room,” Jinyoung says disapprovingly, shaking his head at the two of them. “Hyung, look, they got cookie crumbs all over the brand new rug.”)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if self indulgent were to be personified, it would be into this fic \o/ hope you enjoyed, and comments are well and truly appreciated? <3


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